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User blog:Squibstress/A Slant-Told Tale - Chapter 33
Title: A Slant-Told Tale Author: Squibstress Rating: MA Genre: Drama, romance Warning/s: Explicit sexual content; violence; abuse; alcoholism Published: 23/05/2017 Disclaimer: All characters, settings and other elements from the Harry Potter franchise belong to J. K. Rowling. Chapter Thirty-Three 7 June 1977 Alastor’s sense of Something Not Quite Right had been nudging him all afternoon. He’d tried to tell the field team leader—that was a laugh!—about it, but Grimsley didn’t want to hear it. Promoted to Senior Auror three years previously, during Alastor’s enforced leave, Willard Grimsley took his charge to “supervise” Moody particularly seriously. Why the hell couldn’t it have been Scrimgeour? At least he was halfway competent, as humiliating as it would be to have an Academy training-mate as his supervisor. But no. He’d got Grimsley. Who patronised Moody with an “I’ll take that under advisement” when Alastor had alerted him that he thought something was off about the job. Problem was, Alastor couldn’t put his finger on it, couldn’t articulate it. It was just odd that the Muggles had requested magical security. Normally, they wanted nothing to do with the Ministry of Magic, or so Alastor had always heard. He’d certainly never been deployed at their request before. He looked up and down the street again. The barricades were in place, the Muggle police were patrolling, and the crowds seemed excited but controlled. There was no sign of magical activity. Of course, nobody in MLE really believed the DEs would bother with disrupting a Muggle event. Baiting individual Muggles, that was more in their line. Which was why the office had only dispatched four Aurors to monitor the procession, despite the pleas from Parkinson, the poor sod assigned to liaise with the Muggle Ministry. The energy in the crowd ratcheted up, and Alastor’s good eye—the magical one was once again relegated to his pocket—skimmed over them, then turned to look down the street as the throng leant forward against the barricades. The procession was moving toward them. First came a seemingly endless parade of twats in ornate uniforms, both on horseback and on foot. Then a troop of soldiers in high fur hats came marching along bearing the Union Jack. Grudgingly, Alastor swept his hat off his head when everyone around him did. A roar rose up from the crowd as the gold coach rolled into view. As it drew nearer, Alastor peered at it. The sense of something amiss grew. Or maybe it was only the increased excitement of the crowd he sensed. As the procession reached the square and began the long, slow rounding of the corner where the crowds were the thickest, the noise crescendoed into an almost unbearable scream of collective joy. Later, Alastor would wonder if it was chance or if he’d seen something earlier that registered in his subconscious, but as he scanned the scene, his eye caught on a guardsmen marching behind the carriage. The man was a fraction out of step with the others. Not so much that most people would notice, but most people weren’t Alastor Moody. His eye followed the guardsman, and Alastor took in the way his arm didn’t quite swing up at the same angle as the rest of the soldiers’ did. The sense of foreboding was almost painful now, like a pressure in his head, and Alastor’s bones knew that something was very wrong. And he was faced with a dilemma. He had no proof, other than his observation of minute variances in one soldier’s stance and his Auror’s instinct, but he had the feeling that if he didn’t act, something terrible would happen. But if he were wrong … there would be a breach of the International Statute on a scale that hadn’t occurred since the Magichesky Achranikov had tried and failed to protect the tsar from a magical assassin and had to stage a bombing—which had to be repeated, thanks to a communications glitch—and modify the memories of all the close observers they could find. Jaysus, Maria, n’ Joseph! That’s it. That’s what this scene reminded him of: the crowds, the carriage, the insufficient magical protections—it was The Liberator’s death all over again. The assassination of Alexander II was a case study in Auror training, one of the reading courses that most recruits paid little attention to. It was a textbook example of what not to do. He looked at the guardsman, and it seemed for a moment that the man was looking right at him. A flicker of recognition clicked, but it was gone before Alastor could get his mind around it. He made his decision. He worked his way back a few feet and gave an almighty shove to the man in front of him, who went sprawling through the barricade. The attention of the crowd near Alastor was drawn to the man, and two police officers hurried over. Alastor wasted no time. He Disillusioned himself and Apparated on the spot, landing a foot away from the soldier he’d been watching. The man seemed to sense the magical disturbance, because he turned before Alastor grabbed him around the chest with both arms. There was a moment in which Alastor thought he’d lost hold of him, but then there was the familiar pressing sensation, and darkness, and Alastor’s arms were still around his mark. Alastor aimed for one of the underground holding cells in the Ministry, but just when the pressure and darkness began to let up and lighten, he was wrenched back into the black. His lungs wouldn’t expand, and his heart felt like it was going to explode. Bugger! Shite! Bollocks! The other wizard was trying to redirect the Apparition. If he was successful, they’d end up God only knew where. Probably on Voldemort’s front doorstep, and then Alastor would be in the soup. He ignored the churning in his belly and the pain in his chest and focussed all his energy on regaining control of the Apparition. He’d only ever had to do it on one previous occasion—almost no one was foolish enough to try to scuttle an Apparition in progress—but it was years ago. Both he and the suspect had come out of it all right back then, but Alastor was under no illusion that it had been anything but luck. That suspect’s attempt had been half-arsed, as if he knew it was a terrible idea. There was no such diffidence with this one. Alastor was being pulled forcefully in a direction he was sure he didn’t care to go. There was no air, and it was fast becoming a question of who’d pass out first. I’m goddamned if it’ll be me. His consciousness was funnelling away. Alastor marshalled his last bit of magical energy and concentrated on a single stone in the floor of the Ministry cell—the one with the scorch mark where a supposedly Petrified collar had surprised him by firing a wordless curse—just that stone and nothing else. There was a burst of light, and his chest expanded. At the same moment, his back hit something hard enough that if he’d had any air left in his lungs, it would have been knocked out of him. Something warm and wet was on top of him, and when he opened his eyes, he saw the Death Eater’s eyes only millimetres from his. They were lifeless and staring. Alastor attempted to roll over and realised that the man’s lower half was missing. A second later, he realised that part of him was too. Pain struck with the ferocity of Fiendfyre. Alastor screamed. A junior staffer burst into the room, wand drawn. She started to say something, then bent over and vomited, the sounds of her retching echoing off the bare stone walls of the holding room, and Alastor knew he was going to die. He didn’t mind at all. It would end his agony, and he could finally stop thinking about all the things he’d done wrong. He turned his head and watched as two crimson pools crept toward one another and met to form a shimmering lake. His body began to shake violently, but it didn’t bother him. He wasn’t living in it anymore. Alastor had been brought up Catholic, at least until his mam had given up the cross for the bottle, and he tried to remember the prayer for forgiveness, but his brain had gone all funny, so he recited in his mind the only prayer he remembered. Hail, Mary … full of Full of grace Hail, Mary Full of The pain receded, replaced by a welcoming cold. Mary Grace Mary. Grace, Mary. Grace. Marygrace. Marygrace. Mary, Mary, Mary He lost consciousness when they pulled the dead man off him. 9 June 1977 Malcolm felt a fool. He’d been standing outside the gates for almost an hour, shivering and shouting, before someone came. “Bless me, Malcolm Macnair, is it?” Hagrid said, peering through the darkness at Malcolm’s face, which was dimly illuminated by the glow from his wand. “It is. It’s good to see you, Hagrid,” Malcolm said as Hagrid pulled the huge iron gate open a few feet to admit him. When he stepped through, Hagrid grasped his arm and shook it until Malcolm thought it might break off. “Good to see you, too. Sorry to keep you waiting, but I didn’t know you were here until I heard you calling. Perfessor McGonagall didn’t say you were expected.” “I’m not. She didn’t know I was coming.” “Well, a fine surprise it’ll be to her.” “I hope so.” They walked toward the main entryway. When they got there, Hagrid said, “If she’s not in her office, try the library. If not the library, might be she’s in the headmaster’s office. Merlin, but I hope your visit lift her spirits. She’s—” “What?” “Aw, Malcolm … I oughtn’t ter have said anything.” “But since you did, how’s she been?” “To be honest, I been worried about her. The last couple of days, she’s been … well … lower than I ever seen her.” Malcolm put his hand on the big man’s arm. “Thanks, Hagrid. I’m worried about her too.” “Ta, Malcolm.” He found her in her quarters. When she opened the door, she blanched, and it took a moment before she pulled him into a tight hug. When she released him, he was struck by the dark circles under her eyes. It had been years since he’d seen them so pronounced. “Mum—” “You can put your bag in my room for now,” she said, taking his cloak and hanging it on the hook near the door. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” “I didn’t know I was. I wanted to come as soon as I got your owl, but I only just got away. I had to finish a big order for the Hôpital Magie-Malades before I came.” She put a hand to his cheek. “Goodness, Malcolm, you’re like ice! I’ll get you some tea.” He didn’t want tea, he wanted to talk about Alastor, but fetching tea was his mother’s way of keeping order in a world that had gone mad, so he sat down while she retrieved a tea tray that held a teapot, two cups, and a tin of Brodie’s. She took the seat next to him and began measuring out the tea into the pot. Malcolm could wait no longer. “Mum, how is he?” “He’s … he’s still unconscious. But they’re not sure … they don’t think—” The spoon she was using clattered to the tray as her hand flew up to cover her crumpling face. She rose quickly and turned away from Malcolm. This was the first time he’d ever seen her cry, and he felt ashamed and frightened, like the boy who had hidden behind the banister, listening to his father call his mother “a cold, conniving bitch” who deserved “what my mother got.” His face grew hot. He swallowed his fear and went to her, put his hands on her shoulders. She resisted his efforts, but he was stronger, and he forced her to turn to him. She was still covering her face, and he pulled her to him, his long arms enveloping her. She felt insubstantial and bird-like in his embrace, like a stranger. She’d always seemed so constant, unbreakable. Her solidity had been part of “home” for him—there when he needed it, sure and strong as the stone upon which the Highlands were laid. But now she needed his strength, and he found he could give it. She pressed her face to his chest, and he rubbed her back. “Hey. It’s okay. He’s going to be okay. This is Alastor we’re talking about. Do you really think he’s going to let some Death Eater Splinch him to death?” She gave a sound that might have been a laugh or a sob. Eventually, her shoulders stopped shaking. He guided her over to the settee, one arm still around her, and they sat down. “When can we see him?” he asked. “I don’t know. They won’t admit anyone who isn’t family. I tried, but—” “That’s all right. We’ll get it arranged. You’ll see.” A tartan handkerchief appeared in her fist, and she dabbed at her eyes and nose. She folded it in a neat square and put it back in her pocket. Her voice was suddenly brisk as she said, “We’ll go get you settled in the guest quarters.” “No need, Mum. I’ll just stop at the Broomsticks or, worst come to worst, the Hog’s Head.” “You’ll do no such thing.” She stood and smoothed her robes. “It’s fine. I’ll just—” “Please don’t argue. I haven’t the energy. I imagine you haven’t eaten. I’ll have Elgar arrange something.” “You shouldn’t bother, I had a big lunch.” “Nonsense, you need to eat. Besides, Elgar will want to see you.” “Okay, thanks, Mum.” Forty-five minutes later, they were sitting at the dining table in her quarters with the headmaster, who had come down shortly after receiving her message that Malcolm was there. They discussed Alastor’s situation, Malcolm’s eyes sliding occasionally to his mother’s face to gauge the emotional weather there. She seemed calm. Professor Dumbledore’s presence was always reassuring, no matter who you were, Malcolm supposed. You felt that nothing truly terrible could ever happen while the headmaster was around. It kept Malcolm sane whenever he thought about the dangerous work Mum was doing with the Order—or probably doing; she never told him about it. “I used a bit of pull to have him transferred to a private room this afternoon,” Professor Dumbledore said as he poured the wine. “I also spoke with the Healer in charge of his case. You will be permitted to visit him henceforward.” “Thank you, Albus,” Mum said. Elgar popped in with their soup, and as Malcolm smelled it, he allowed himself to relax for the first time since he’d arrived in Britain. When he brought the spoon to his lips, the sweet, verdant flavour of fresh peas enveloped his tongue, and it took him back to childhood with a sudden frisson of remembered pleasure. He’d loved his Scottish summers. He loved Paris too, but it got noisy and cloying when the weather turned warm, and he often found himself longing for Hogsmeade or Morayshire as he made his way through the already-dusty Quartier on a morning’s ingredients run. Eliane loved Paris at any time of the year, though. It was in her blood, he supposed. The conversation lagged while they ate, but once the bowls were cleared away, the talk turned once again to Alastor. “He’s going to need help when he gets out of hospital,” said Dumbledore. “They weren’t able to reattach the leg?” Malcolm asked, glancing at his mother, who shut her eyes briefly. “Evidently not. He will have a prosthesis, but it will be some time before he’s steady enough to use it without aid,” Dumbledore said. “Alastor has sisters, has he not?” “Yes,” said Mum. “But they’re not especially close. They’re both in Ireland, and I think Siobbhan’s husband is very ill with some kind of wasting disease. Deirdre took over their father’s herb business and has expanded it all over Europe.” “A herbologist? I had no idea,” said Dumbledore. Malcolm said, “Well, she doesn’t have a degree. But she’s excellent. As a matter of fact, I buy all my Symphytum from her. It’s the best quality I’ve found anywhere.” He grinned at Dumbledore. “Don’t tell Professor Slughorn, though.” “Yes, his views on Irish comfrey are somewhat … vehement. I’m glad to hear you haven’t taken everything your teachers said as gospel.” “Only some teachers, Professor.” There was an odd pause before Professor Dumbledore said, “I believe, Malcolm, that it’s high time you call me by my given name.” Mum was quiet during the dinner. Malcolm guessed it was because she was contemplating Alastor’s predicament, but you never could tell with Mum. He’d know what she was thinking when she told him, and not before. When the port had been passed around, Dumbledore offered Malcolm a pipe. Mum wrinkled her nose, and Malcolm laughed. “Okay, Mum. Point taken. Prof— Albus, thank you for dinner. It was wonderful. I’d forgotten how good the Hogwarts house-elves are.” “Ah, but their efforts cannot compare to the food in France, I think,” Dumbledore said. “The restaurants maybe. But to tell the truth, for a Potions master, I’m a terrible cook.” Dumbledore chuckled and said, “But surely Mademoiselle Giroux has some culinary skill? Didn’t you tell me her aunt runs a restaurant?” “I’m afraid Eliane’s time at the restaurant didn’t rub off. She’s much safer handling a telescope than a sauté pan.” “Ah, yes. I’m given to understand that she is very gifted. When last I saw Headmistress Maxime, she was having great difficulty filling her Astronomy post. She was quite excited to hear that I was acquainted with your Mademoiselle Giroux. She seemed to believe I might exercise some influence.” “With me, certainly,” said Malcolm. “But Eliane is pretty unmoveable once she takes a decision.” “Not unlike another lady of our mutual acquaintance, eh?” “Oh, do stop it,” said Mum. “It is an aspect of your character that I have come to admire, my dear,” said Albus. The headmaster said his goodnights and left. Malcolm stayed another five minutes. His mother walked him to the door, and before he went, he said, “I owled Eliane that I’m going to stay on a few more days. Just to make sure Alastor isn’t—to make sure he’s properly on the mend.” Her jaw tightened for a fleeting moment, then she asked, “How is Eliane?” “Well.” “I’m surprised she turned down the post at Beauxbatons. I thought she was having trouble getting enough private work.” “Yes. But she didn’t want to move to Provence.” “She could still live in Paris and Apparate.” “Yes. I suppose so,” Malcolm said. “She just has other ideas.” She laid a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t pry. Eliane’s reasons are her business.” “It’s all right, Mum.” He leant down and kissed her cheek. “Good night.” She returned the kiss. “Good night.” As he lay in the small, too-firm four-poster in the Gryffindor guest quarters, Malcolm thought about Alastor. And his mum. Their break-up had come as a shock to Malcolm when she’d written to him about it. They’d been together for thirteen years, and though they hadn’t married, Malcolm had believed it would be a permanent arrangement. They’d seemed fine the last time they’d visited France the summer before the end. Maybe she’d been a little subdued, but nothing more. And when Malcolm had asked about the Order, he’d sensed tension in the room, and one or the other of them had always changed the subject. He’d assumed it was because they were trying to avoid revealing too much, but now he wondered. Then, in October, he’d got what he thought of as The Letter. It had been odd, beginning with the usual news and ending with a few lines to explain that she and Alastor were “no longer seeing one another” and that she wished him well and hoped Malcolm would stay in touch with him, if he wished. Reading that letter had forced the colour from his face to the point that Eliane had been alarmed. Once he’d got over the shock, he got angry. Not only had she sprung it on him as if it were a titbit of school gossip, she’d written that last stinging line that told him she had no understanding of what he felt about things. If he wished. Of course he wished! Alastor had been like a father to him—more father than his real one had ever been—and this news was as painful as when she’d told him that his actual father had disappeared. It had taken two weeks for him to simmer down and write back to her, and another week to muster the courage to write to Alastor, but he finally did, expressing honestly his sorrow at how things had turned out and telling him that he hoped he and Alastor would remain … what? He’d settled on the benign-sounding “friends”, but he hoped Alastor would read between the lines and understand what Malcolm meant. Every morning when the owl post came, Malcolm had looked through the letters with an anxiety he tried and failed to hide from Eliane. She’d said, “He will write. He is probably just trying to find the right words. He loves you, you know.” “I know.” Still, it was week before an owl bearing a letter in Alastor’s familiar half-print, half-script arrived. 1 November 1974 Dear Malcolm, Thanks for your letter. No one is sorrier than me that your mother and I couldn’t make a go of it. It wasn’t her fault. I’m just a crazy old bastard, and I don’t blame her for not putting up with me any longer. We aren’t angry—or at least I’m not—but we haven’t exactly been speaking since we went our separate ways. I wish her every happiness, and you can tell her that, if the opportunity comes up and you don’t think she’ll hex you for it. To answer your question, I’m doing fine. Work’s keeping me busy—yes, they let me back in, the buggers. Mostly small jobs and desk work, but eventually they’ll need me in the field again when the you-know-whats really come out to play. I have a new partner, and once I kick his arse properly, I think he’ll shape up nicely. Everything else is going along all right. I expect your mother would say I’ve let my hair get too long again, but other than that, I’m taking care of myself, so don’t worry yourself over me. You don’t have to if you think it’d make her angry, but maybe you could let me know how she is once in a while. Amelia won’t talk to me about her, which I guess I can understand. Keep your eyes open and your wand at the ready. The times are getting dark. Constant vigilance, Malcolm. Write again soon. It makes an old man happy. Best, Alastor Malcolm had been relieved. He sounded all right, and very much the Alastor Malcolm knew. As he watched the shadows moving across the walls of the guest room, he wondered if Alastor would be the same when he awoke. If he awoke. ← Back to Chapter 32 On to Chapter 34→ Chapters of Slant-Told Tale, A